C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Primrose
By Adam Mickiewicz (17981855)
To sing of Spring with joyous burst,
When oped the primrose to the sun—
The golden-petaled blossoms first.
The north wind waits with chilly breath;
Still capped by snow the mountains tower,
And wet the meadows lie beneath.
Hide yet beneath thy mother’s wing,
Ere chilly frosts that pierce and blight
Unto thy fragile petals cling.
They pass, and death is all our gain:
One April hour is sweeter far
Than all December’s gloomy reign.
Thy friend or thy beloved one?
Then weave a wreath wherein there nods
My blossoms—fairer there are none.”
Beloved flower, thou hast grown;
So simple, few have understood
What gives the prestige all thy own.
Nor tulip’s gaudy turbaned crest,
Nor clothed art thou as lilies are,
Nor in the rose’s splendor drest.
When comes thy sweet confiding sense
That friends—and more beloved than friend—
Shall give thee kindly preference?
They see spring’s angel in my face;
For friendship dwells not in the heat,
But loves with me the shady place.
Worthy I am, can’t tell before?
If she but looks this bud upon,
I’ll get a tear—if nothing more!”